There are moments of genuine magic that make you wonder what this movie could have been. But do they linger like that imaginary friend you’ll never forget? In this case, perhaps not.

What’s often most striking about Inside Out 2, however, is how the arguments and conflicts between these emotions often feel as though they are speaking directly to the adults in the audience.

It’s a perceptive film about the way men of a certain age act around each other. (Which, is to say, like boys.)

There’s certainly necessarily nothing off with Diane Von Furstenberg: Woman In Charge in terms of its craft, its breezy structure, its slick pace, etc. It’s a handsomely made documentary, but it always borders on fawning puff pieces, letting us into the life of the fashion mogul but still making you feel like it’s a surface portrait meant to resell something vintage, like a classic dress everyone already knows and admires.

No one tries to reinvent the wheel, and everyone plays the greatest hits, steering things right off the cliff into explosive, slow-motion ecstasy, where ‘Bad Boys’ thrives and survives best.

Although the changes in tone don’t always work, and the third segment towers over the rest of the film, there is something to be said for filmmakers willing to approach history as something malleable.

The fact Pusić is able to pull off such complicated visual effects with her actors in scene after scene while keeping her chosen tone is extraordinary for a young director (not to mention the confines of a relatively independent film budget). This sort of world building would absolutely falter in the wrong hands.

Johnson and Penn’s connection is genuine, and there’s an awful lot to like here. Shame about that title.

A victim of a politically motivated jail sentence for supporting the 2022 Masha Amini hijab protests, Rasoulof‘s latest feature will likely anger the Iranian government even more. Especially considering how brilliant “Sacred Fig” is at deconstructing the rampant injustice in the totalitarian state.

This is rigorous filmmaking of the highest order, controlled and precise to the exclusion of anything extraneous —evidenced by its taut 100-minute runtime.

Not one to shy away from sincerity, Desplechin brings his beloved Paul Dédalus full circle in a satisfying project about the grandeur of the force that unifies the fictional character with the real man.

Kapadia’s gentle voice disguises her subversive spirit.

Atlas is rote and routine, using the concept of sci-fi and artificial intelligence in the most obvious way: A.I. runs wild, attacks humans, and becomes the central enemy of the entire world; the ultimate threat that humanity must face, battle, and hopefully defeat. But all of it is conventionally realized, uninspired, dull, and something you’ve seen done more inventively a thousand times before.

As the film progresses, the narrative choices somehow become even less believable and Lellouche begins to throw everything and the kitchen sink at the screen.

While the cinematic moments and winks at French pop culture history will be nostalgic for many, it’s the bond between Deneuve and this new Marcello that resonates the most.

While the first act feels dynamic despite its stationary setting, the latter sections unravel oppositely. The gags that played so well the first time around grow tiresome through repetition, and the mystery around the big event that seems to lead them all into doom takes center stage to the detriment of the relationship between the characters.

If the movie only serves as an appetizer for Liminov’s fascinating life, that’s something, I guess.

Parthenope’s fictional life story may actually not be as intriguing as Sorrentino thinks it is. A movie that begins with blistering sex appeal really starts to lose momentum in its third act.

Considering the entire film takes place in the confines of the school building, it’s a testament to Tøndel’s direction and Reinsve’s enthralling performance that the film avoids feeling claustrophobic.

What is grief if not a non-linear, mood-spanning, incongruous mess? In this, The Shrouds feels like one of the greatest encapsulations of loss and one we might look at more and more fondly as time goes by.

While Baker has proven his worth as a true cinematic auteur, his greatest skill has been guiding his actors to new heights wherever his stories may take them. You’ll have to decide if that’s enough to gloss over the rough patches this time around.

Abbasi manages to thread the lines between tabloid fodder and veiled endorsement with great skill.

A bold dissection on aging and self-hatred Fargeat’s latest work is an utter visual marvel and features superb performances from its lead actresses; Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley.

Even at its most unwieldy, Audiard’s cinematic skill and Zoe Saldana‘s at times dazzling performance make it hard to ignore.

Despite the shootouts, some epic vistas (frankly, not as much as you’d expect), and a few fleeting moments of genuine tension, it all feels flat.

Schrader’s gaze is patient — tired, almost. He frames Gere’s aged face in tight close-ups, and it is as if we are seeing him for the first time, wrinkled and ragged and oh so very beautiful.

Institutional corruption has been a centerpiece in Romanian film, especially over the past two decades. It’s no surprise then that Emanuel Parvu‘s Three Kilometers to the End of the World is driven by that narrative even when it’s not the most compelling part of the story.

There is so much beauty in Bird, both within the relationships unraveling onscreen and on the screen itself — bright reds and whites and blacks lusciously captured in the film, the edges of the image burnt and remade, almost like yet another bird, the phoenix.